


job well done

by goodnightpuckbunny



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Idiots, M/M, Rimming, implied Brock Boeser/Elias Pettersson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:27:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22234024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodnightpuckbunny/pseuds/goodnightpuckbunny
Summary: “I know the best way to relax.”Boeser shook his head and shoved the phone he was staring at into his pocket. “If I let you tell me about it, will you leave me alone?”
Relationships: Nathan MacKinnon/Brock Boeser
Comments: 8
Kudos: 150





	job well done

**Author's Note:**

  * For [babyflow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/babyflow/gifts).



> What is friendship if not offering the beef sandwich of your buddy's dreams? Brock isn't going to the ASG this year, but bro-fucking is about more than reality sometimes. :)

_That Boeser kid needs to relax,_ Nate thought, and then cringed. Nothing made him feel older than thinking of younger players as _kids—_ save for the way his foot sometimes ached when the weather was shitty. It was true, though. Boeser looked about ready to pop out of his skin like an overripe grape. The same too-wide smile had been plastered on his face for half an hour now. Nate knew the feeling, but _Jesus_.

The ASG was about meeting your teenage heroes, and about being quietly star-struck, and maybe about popping a respect-boner or two. But it was _also_ about losing all that nervousness because the guys that plastered your bedroom walls growing up were just _guys_. Most of them were pretty gross in the locker room, and everyone spent the weekend lazily drunk. You caught up with old friends who spent most of the season being old rivals. It was supposed to be chill. 

Last year Nate had spent his time drinking Natty from a family-friendly Timmies cup while pretending to coach. It wasn’t a big deal. Boeser did _not_ need to be this nervous. Fuck, it was only the informal Friday bar night, and he saw most of these guys several times a year anyways. 

Nate went over to help a brother out. 

“Hey man,” he greeted, keeping it casual and non-threatening.

Boeser turned to him with his frozen grin. “MacKinnon,” he said, and stuck his hand out mechanically. “Good to see you.”

Nate resisted rolling his eyes and slapped Boeser on the back instead. “Nice apple last night.” It had made the highlight reels and therefore was on Nate’s NHL app feed, which he’d been scrolling in the airport that morning. The Canucks were looking good this year. Boeser should soak it up before the Avs crushed them to dust in the post-season. 

“Oh, thanks.” Boeser blushed at the compliment, cheeks going a little shiny like Sid’s did sometimes when Nate was definitely not looking. 

“Fuck, bud. You boy was _not_ this bad last year.”

“Petey’s an alien,” he replied. The expression on his face was too complicated for Nate to parse, but he recognized _fondness_ and resolved to not to pry. He knew how it was. Yikes. 

“You gotta relax, man.”

Boeser blinked. “What?"

"Like, you don't have to be nervous."

His brows inched together, and he tilted his head. "I’m not nervous.”

Nate gestured to his own face, in the way one might’ve indicated their friend had sauce on their chin, but, y’know, all over. “Buddy,” he said, layering his tone with as much sympathy as was prudent, “I know it’s crazy to hang out with all the big boys—”

“I’ve been to the All-Stars before, you dick,” Boeser huffed. And that’s odd—surely Nate would’ve remembered. Probably. “Just because _you_ cream your pants every time Crosby looks at you, it doesn’t mean I do.”

Now it was Nate’s turn to blush. He hid it by taking a drink and then deflecting. “Croz isn’t even here this year.” As deflections went, it was pretty weak. 

“Look, I just have some things on my mind right now.” Boeser kind of sighed, his shoulders moving up and down in a half-aborted shrug. 

“What things?”

“ _Stuff_ , okay?”

Boeser turned his head to gaze at the door, clearly looking for an exit, and Nate was floundering. He used a line that usually worked for him once he’d fucked things up. “I feel like we got off on the wrong foot. Hi, I’m Nate.”

“We’ve met _before_ , asshole,” replied Boeser with a clenched jaw. “Several times. We’ve met _at the All-Star Game_.”

So Nate decided, subsequently, that he was not drunk enough; he cut his losses and walked away. Nate with three Mai-Tais in him was considerably smoother than Nate with none. He made small talk with some of the other guys at the bar, mostly about fantasy football and cars, which was perfectly mind-numbing. He listened with fascination as Connor McDavid talked about _absolutely nothing_ and yet managed to maintain the attention of like five dudes. Nate threw down some money on the skills competition. He played a round of Buck Hunt, ate a handful of salty bar nuts, took a piss, and then went back to Boeser. 

“I know the best way to relax.”

Boeser shook his head and shoved the phone he was staring at into his pocket. “If I let you tell me about it, will you leave me alone?”

“You should let me eat you out,” Nate blurted.

There was a pause where Nate assumed Boeser was seriously considering the offer, because who wouldn’t? Then he said, “Am I being punk’d right now? Is this hazing? I told you, I’ve been to the ASG already. I’m not even a rookie anymore.”

Nate blazed on through. “Have you ever got your ass ate, bud?”

“Have I— _no_ , of course not.”

Boeser was cute, like, objectively. He had this kind of Prince Charming look about him—though different from Gabe. Handsome didn’t hurt in a league where half of the available prospects looked like run-over mashed potatoes and smelled worse than they looked. He had good hair—real nice flow. A golden wave of lettuce-y beauty. And he had a good body, too. Nate didn’t go in for the slim guys. He wanted a man with more meat on his bones, who could give him a run for his money in the gym, or wrestle him down in bed. Boeser also had a nice ass. That was the most important, maybe, if Nate was going to plant his face in it. 

Nate had always been an Ass Man.

“I’m really good at it,” he offered. “It’s kind of my thing.”

Boeser seemed to go through several thoughts, opening his mouth to say something and then closing it again a few times. He picked up his drink and drained it. “You know what?” He finally settled on. “Fuck it. I’m basically on vacation right now. Give me your best shot.”

Nate felt a little pleasure-rush of accomplishment. “Really?”

“Before I change my mind.” Boeser looked around at the bar, crowded with mostly hockey dudes and a handful of wives and girlfriends. “So, like, where? Bathroom stall?”

Nate shook his head. “Bud, no, you can’t eat ass in the bathroom.”

“You can suck dick in the bathroom, though,” Boeser countered with a tone that sounded like he had done it, but only once. Maybe he was reassuring himself that it was okay. 

“Maybe,” Nate allowed, “but it’s really fucking gross, dude. You’re gonna get some kind of bacterial infection that way, I think.” He laid his hand over Boeser’s. “Come to my hotel room and I’ll give you some real beauty treatment. Honest, if you’re not totally relaxed by the time I’m done, I owe you twenty bucks.”

Boeser flipped his hand over beneath Nate’s so they were touching palm to palm. “Or you could just jerk me off.”

“Whoa boys!” Jeered Brent Burns as he passed. “Get a room!”

“I plan on it,” Nate said, but only loud enough for the two of them to hear. “C’mon, let’s go.”

* * *

Nate didn’t fumble with the key card at his hotel room because he was excited, or anything. Those things were always tricky. 

“Do you want some help?” Boeser asked, just as the door beeped and let them in. 

“Welcome to _Chez MacKinnon_ ,” Nate said. He gestured grandly at the boring-as-fuck hotel room in the dark as they stepped inside. 

“Thanks,” Boeser said dryly. He reached behind him and slapped at the light switch. “Should I, uh,” he cocked his head at the bathroom door. 

Nate shrugged. “If you want.” His butt was probably pretty clean, and Nate didn’t mind eating somebody out right off the ice, sweaty and rank. He preferred it, even. That’s what jock straps were _made_ for. “It doesn’t matter to me.” 

“Yeah, I think I’m gonna,” Boeser said, and then ducked into the bathroom and closed the door with a hurried bang. 

Nate stripped out of his casual suit. It was the only one he’d brought for the weekend, so it’d be a pain if it got wrinkled and he had to send it for dry-cleaning. He heard the water running in the bathroom and took the opportunity to tidy up a bit. He threw some balled-up socks back into his suitcase and turned down the cover on the queen bed. Would Boeser want to be on his stomach, or his back? Nate moved one pillow onto the armchair in the corner, just in case things got real messy. 

Just as he was getting impatient, thinking about turning on the TV or going out on the balcony, the water shut off and Boeser emerged. 

He was naked, with his own suit bundled in his arms. “Can I borrow some hangers?”

Nate helped Boeser hang his clothes up and resisted falling onto his knees to suck the guy’s dick. Normally it wasn’t his first choice, but there was something _nice_ about the way it looked, and Nate wanted it in his mouth. It was a little chubbed up, and the room was chilly, so Boeser’s nipples were pink and pebbled and Nate wanted to suck them, too. 

“You like Vancouver?” He asked instead. 

Boeser nodded. “Yeah, s’nice. It rains a lot, but there’s some nice places to walk the dog. I’m glad I signed.”

“Plus you got your boy there,” Nate said. 

“He’s not my boy,” Boeser said, with just a fraction too much hesitation. He missed hanging up his jacket and it fell to a heap on the floor. He bent and picked it up, and Nate took a good look at his bare ass. God sure knew what he was doing when he made hockey players. 

“So you ready to get this show on the road?” Nate asked when everything was properly hung up. 

“Yeah. How do you want me to do this?”

“Any way you want,” Nate said. “Just lay down.” 

Boeser climbed onto the bed on his back. Nate knelt next to him and ran a palm over his stomach, which was smooth and warm and soft, and jumped under Nate’s touch. “Um,” Boeser said. His chest rose and fell. 

“You look great, you know that?” Nate stroked up and down Boeser’s belly, not quite low enough to touch his dick. “Like, you’re a real man-rocket, bud.”

“Thanks.” Boeser blushed again.

Nate pushed his knees apart and sat between them. He touched the crease of Boeser’s hip, rubbing it with his thumb. “You ever touch yourself down here before?”

“Have I ever _jerked off_?” Boeser asked with incredulity. 

“Have you ever fingered yourself,” Nate clarified. Not a lot of guys had—not the guys that Nate usually went for. 

“Not really.” A pause. “Well, a little. Not inside, but just. Around.”

“How did it feel?” Nate moved his hand closer to Boeser’s ass, and used his other to push his thigh up. 

“Like I was touching my asshole.”

Nate looked up. Boeser was a fucking snack. “Is that all?” He licked his thumb, and then slipped it between Boeser’s cheeks to circle his hole, nice and slow. Boeser gasped. 

“Oh.”

“Put your legs on my shoulders,” Nate said, but didn’t wait for Boeser to comply, just hefted them up there. “Let me have control for a while, okay? I’ll make you feel so good.”

Boeser nodded. 

Nate touched his cock a bit, trailed his fingers along the side of it and over the crown just to hear Boeser gasp some more. Eating someone’s ass for the first time was a _process_ , and at this point Nate was an expert. Fuck, Boeser was going to feel _awesome_ by the end of this. He palmed Boeser’s ass a bit, getting some good, full handfuls, and then pushed his legs even further until they were almost touching his chest. Then Nate pushed his cheeks apart and spat on his hole.

“Dude,” Boeser yelped, and then laughed. “Gross.”

“Don’t judge, just let yourself feel.”

Nate spat again, and Boeser giggled.

It was…such a great ass. Like, round and smooth and shit. A fucking peach. His asshole was pretty pale, but Nate was going to have it red and puffy in no time. 

“You can still back out if you want.”

“What, after you loogie’d my butt twice?” Nate looked up and Boeser was smiling, something real, and not the one he’d been wearing earlier that evening. His eyes were crinkled at the corners. “I’m good, dude, just go for it.”

Nate bent and licked a stripe up Boeser’s crack, bottom to top, all the way up to his perineum. He circled his thumb around Boeser’s hole three times and then licked him again. 

“Feels alright,” Boeser said, a lot more quiet now. 

“It’ll be better than alright,” Nate promised. This was still just the pre-show. 

He kept his pattern up for a while, getting Boeser used to the feeling of a tongue and fingers all up in his ass. He knew it was weird at first. Nate, well, he wouldn’t say no to someone offering to rim his ass, but he was more of a giver. The little hitching breaths that Boeser was making, still unsure, but starting to warm up—fuck. Nate could get off to that sound. He could listen all day. 

But he couldn’t actually listen all day. After five minutes Boeser was pliant, and Nate was running out of patience. He was ready to lose himself in it. 

Nate settled his mouth right over Boeser’s hole. He licked once, firmer, just a taste for what was about to come. Then he lifted his head one last time, said, “You can jerk yourself off, if you want,” and then went to town.

He didn’t know why he liked this so much, but it was something he could spend hours doing. If he wasn’t a hockey player, he’d be a professional fucking ass-eater. He licked with the flat of his tongue. He swirled it around Boeser’s tight furl of an asshole. He dug in with the tip of his tongue, then his fingers, then his tongue again. He got it fucking sloppy with spit, then slurped it up again noisily. He made out with Boeser’s ass and listened to him moaning above, the sounds of a man coming apart. 

Boeser’s hand moved above Nate’s head, probably touching his cock, but the other one found it’s way into Nate’s hair. He clutched at the back of his head and pushed him impossibly closer, chanting a litany of _fuck, fuck, fuck_. 

_That’s good_ , Nate thought, but didn’t let up to voice it, _give in_. 

He drifted, half aware that he was grinding his dick into the bed. He was probably going to come in his boxers before Boeser did. He kept pressing his tongue in, and in. 

Nate wanted to be inside, and slowly Boeser was letting him. Gradually, he was pressing past that tight ring of muscle. He was barely taking a second to breathe. He only took a break to flutter his tongue and let Boeser get desperate enough to start yanking at his hair again. 

Boeser whined, loud as hell. He made those _uh, uh_ sounds that sounded like bad porn—but still like porn. Nate slid a finger in, up to the second knuckle, and pressed down and followed with his tongue as deep as he could. 

“Fuck,” Boeser cried out, voice breaking. “ _Petey—fuck_.”

Then he was coming, twitching against Nate’s mouth, grabbing his hair so fucking tight. 

Nate reached down, squeezed his cock in an upward stroke, and spilled into his palm.

Job well done.

Nate rested his cheek on Boeser’s thigh as his legs came back down to Nate’s shoulders, because he did actually have to take in oxygen once in a while. When he finally caught his breath he asked, “So now do you feel relaxed?”

But the response he got back was borderline whimpery. “No.”

Nate looked up. Boeser was all red in the blotchy way, forearm thrown over his eyes, streaked with come from his belly all the way up his chest. His mouth was a twisted line. Nate got it, kind of. You didn't just shout your liney's name during climax for no reason. Maybe he should’ve left well enough alone at the bar. 

“Hey, bud,” he said, untangling himself from Boeser’s legs and then scooting up next to him. He found a patch of relatively jizz-free skin and patted him gently. “You gotta tell him how you feel.”

“I _did_.”

Nate was so far out of his fucking depth here. “Like, with your words.”

Boeser huffed and flung his arm away from his face. His eyes were all glittery. Nate hoped at least _some_ of that was from the stellar job he did eating ass. “Can we pretend you didn’t hear what you heard and just—take a nap, or something? Or watch TV? Or you go to the bathroom and I run away as fast as I can?” 

Nate thought about it. “For right now? Sure.” Boeser breathed a sigh of relief. “But I’m gonna keep bugging you about it all weekend. ‘Cause like, you gotta, uh. Feel your feelings. Shoot your shot.”

“Please stop talking,” Boeser groaned. 

Magnanimously, Nate did. He mimed zipping his lips and throwing away the key. Then he took off his damp boxers and threw those away, too, into his suitcase. Perfect shot. Mostly. 

* * *

Later, after Boeser had slunk away, Nate texted Tyson. 

_Nate (January 24 2020 23:04)_  
bro how do u deal with babies and their feelings

_Nate (January 24 2020 23:04)_  
theres so many dumb little leafs u gotta deal with rite?

_Nate (January 24 2020 23:05)_  
how do u tell them not to be fkn stupid

_T-Bear (January 24 2020 23:06)_  
hahahahaha lmfaoooooooo

_Nate (January 24 2020 23:07)_  
pls help :(

_T-Bear (January 24 2020 23:10)_  
good luck brotha

_Nate (January 24 2020 23:10)_  
tys

_Nate (January 24 2020 23:12)_  
tyson


End file.
